CHAPTER 163: THE VAULT

The floor pulsed like it was alive.

Allen walked barefoot across the veined stone, his body still slick with sweat, semen, angel blood, and the scent of divine defeat. The tremors had stilled for now, but something deeper stirred beneath him, not with rage or judgment—but anticipation. The vault recognized him. Not as a trespasser. As a long-awaited lover.

The air thickened with every step, hot and heavy, laced with pheromones that clung to skin and filled lungs with want. Behind him came the soft patter of paws and bare feet—beastkin girls following in silence. Their breath was shaky, reverent. Some still had Allen’s seed on their faces, drying into cracked holy patterns. Others trembled from the aftershocks of the angel’s ruin. But they came. They all came. Dozens of them now, crawling deeper into the dark after the man who had defiled godhood.

At the end of the vault, the flesh-wall parted. Not by magic, but like lips opening for a kiss. Heat blasted out—humid, moist, and biological. Beyond it wasn’t a chamber. It was a womb. A living cavern of pulsing meat and glowing runes, lit from within by veins that beat with golden ichor. Runes circled in the air like fireflies made of scripture. But these weren’t divine anymore. They were corrupted. Rewritten. Twisted by lust and pain into symbols of hunger.

Allen stepped inside, and the womb quivered.

The walls moaned.

Some of the girls whimpered. One foxgirl—barely out of adolescence—fell to her knees, legs shaking as she came untouched, overcome by the energy in the room. Her thighs glistened. Another began licking the floor, murmuring prayers in a long-dead tongue as if she’d remembered something from before she was born.

Allen approached the altar in the center of the chamber.

It wasn’t stone.

It was a spine—massive and fossilized, yet warm to the touch, curled like a throne in the heart of the chamber. Ancient bones wrapped in glowing sinew, flexing with slow breaths. At its base, a massive, quivering slit ran vertically up its front. A birth canal? A mouth? A gate?

He placed his palm on it. It was wet. Warm. Beating.

The vault responded.

A scream—not human, not beastkin, not angel—erupted from the flesh around him. Every rune flashed red. Heat surged. The floor convulsed like a climax, spraying a mist of steaming fluid across Allen’s chest. The slit at the center of the altar yawned open, revealing a glowing pit of amniotic light below.

Something was inside.

Allen peered into it.

And it saw him back.

A face, flickering and half-formed, pressed against the membrane. Not a goddess. Not a monster. Something older. Her features shifted—beastkin, angel, demon, human, elf—every race Allen had seen and conquered, their faces all passed across this thing. This mother. This buried god.

"Come inside," it whispered, in every voice he’d ever heard. "Come and finish what they started."

Allen didn’t hesitate. He climbed into the pit.

The membrane sealed behind him with a wet, sucking schlork, and the world turned hot and silent.

He sank.

Fluid surrounded him, glowing gold and thick as seed. His limbs tingled. His cock throbbed. Visions poured into his skull—visions of the First World. A land ruled by flesh and desire, before the divine races arrived and sealed it away. The Mother hadn’t been evil. She had simply been honest. She birthed, bred, and bled life. She fucked the world into being.

And now Allen was inside her.

The canal pulsed tighter around him, stimulating every inch of skin, caressing his cock with impossible softness. It wasn’t seduction. It was worship. His lungs burned, but he didn’t drown. He breathed her in.

The membrane in front of him peeled open, revealing a new space.

A womb within the womb.

And in it... she waited.

A woman.

Or something shaped like one.

Her body was made of soft pink skin and glowing golden seams. Her breasts were enormous, heavy with milk that glowed like starlight. Her hips were wide, her thighs spread open in an eternal invitation. Her face was blank—no eyes, no mouth—but she radiated welcome. Her pussy flexed open as Allen approached, leaking nectar that mixed with the womb-fluid.

Without words, without ceremony, he mounted her.

The flesh beneath him formed grips, bracing his hips. The pussy pulled him in, impossibly warm, impossibly wet. He groaned. It was like being sucked into the heart of existence itself.

He thrust.

Once.

Twice.

And then the womb screamed.

Not in pain.

In joy.

The runes outside the womb chamber ignited. Every beastkin girl above felt it. They gasped, moaned, and fell to their knees. Some convulsed in orgasm. Some collapsed into seizures of pleasure. One began lactating uncontrollably. Another started humping the floor, unable to stop.

Allen kept thrusting.

The womb tightened. Milk poured from the godmother’s tits, coating him. Her pussy contracted with every stroke, like it was milking him not for cum—but for truth. For history. For domination. Each pump of his cock was rewriting the world’s story.

He came.

Hard.

So hard the entire cavern shuddered.

Seed erupted inside the godmother, glowing, pulsing, thick enough to overflow instantly. The chamber filled with white-gold light. The walls howled. The womb shook.

Above, in the ruined temple, the angel sat up suddenly, eyes glowing with terror.

"They awakened it," she whispered. "Oh no. Oh no—"

And then the ceiling of the temple exploded again—not from above, but from below.

Allen rose out of the pit, carried by a tide of golden milk and god-seed. The womb split behind him, birthing him back into the world soaked, steaming, changed. His body glowed with fresh power. His cock hung massive, throbbing, dripping with divine corruption.

His eyes burned gold. His veins shimmered.

The beastkin girls dropped to their faces.

Some wept.

Some begged to be taken.

Some just crawled forward to kiss the floor where his feet had landed.

Allen looked up.

A hole had been blown in the sky. The heavens literally torn open. Seraphs hovered beyond it—real ones. Not angels with human skin. Actual divine warriors, cloaked in flame and judgment.

Dozens of them.

Hundreds.

A fucking army.

Allen smirked.

Behind him, the godmother pulsed in the pit, now leaking her juices in waterfalls. The world had already changed. They were too late.

The first seraph dove.

Allen raised a hand, now glowing with womb-sigils and corruption. "Come on, then," he called out, voice deep and wrong and beautiful. "Let’s see if Heaven can bleed."

And the war began.

The first seraph dove like a meteor, blade of holy fire streaking behind it, wings flaring with screaming light. It wasn’t shaped like a man or woman. It was shaped like wrath. Its face was a plate of gold etched with runes that screamed in forgotten tongues, its limbs wrapped in fire, its body both there and not there. A weapon, forged by a god, meant to end worlds.

Allen didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, bare feet crunching through broken stained glass and dried cum, his cock still wet from the godmother’s womb. One hand lifted lazily, glowing with the corruption he’d earned. The runes that marked his veins pulsed in rhythm with the vault beneath the temple, the heartbeat of the ancient world thudding louder, faster, as the seraph descended.

And then he caught it.

Midair.

By the fucking face.

A shockwave tore through the ruins, ripping up columns, launching beastkin girls back in every direction. Dust, ash, and angel blood scattered in a screaming halo around them. The seraph flailed, tried to speak judgment—but Allen gripped tighter, fingers digging through the golden mask like it was soft clay. The divine metal melted under his palm. The runes on the seraph’s face flickered and died.

Then Allen slammed it into the floor hard enough to make the world jump.

The ground split. Holy fire hissed and vanished. The seraph screamed once—sharp, high, human—and then Allen dropped to his knees, grabbed the thing’s burning loincloth, and tore it clean off.

The beastkin gasped.

Even the angel, still twitching on the ruined altar above, shivered.

Allen looked down at the creature’s flawless, glowing androgynous body. There was no cock, no pussy—just smooth perfection, the divine’s idea of "purity."

He laughed. Low and ugly.

"Let me fix that."

He placed his hand on the glowing, featureless mound, and corrupted it.

The seraph’s eyes flared with horror as runes dug into its crotch. A slit formed, pulsing, quivering, wet. Divine ichor leaked out in fat, glowing beads. Allen didn’t wait. He shoved two fingers in, then three, then his whole fist. The seraph screamed again, voice cracking into a broken, shameful wail. It was too much. Too real. Too dirty.

"You were made perfect," Allen whispered, leaning down to speak into its flickering, melting face. "Now you’re mine."

He rammed his cock into the trembling hole he’d made, hissing as the divine flesh clamped down on him like a furnace. It burned. It healed. It drank him. The seraph bucked under him, wings flaring in agony, trying to lift off—but Allen grabbed them both, snapped them back with a crack like thunder, and used them as leverage to fuck it harder.

Golden light poured from the seraph’s eyes like tears.

He kept going.

Each thrust pulsed with holy corruption. Every time he bottomed out, the seraph’s runes dimmed a little more, its body twitching, its hands clawing at the broken tiles. The beastkin girls watched in silence now, stunned, aroused, afraid. One of the lizardfolk priestesses dropped to her hands and knees and started rubbing herself furiously, unable to look away.

And Allen—Allen grinned. His cock shone with unholy power, streaked with ichor and dripping from the base. He came deep, forcing divine light to spurt from the seraph’s mouth in a glowing, corrupted scream. The creature spasmed. Its mask fell off, and beneath it was a face so perfect it was unreal—soft, sexless, still somehow beautiful even as tears rolled down its cheeks and cum leaked from its ruined cunt.

Allen stood.

The seraph didn’t move.

More were coming.

The sky above burned white, full of diving wings, glowing swords, righteous fury. The heavens had snapped. Allen had pushed too far. Fucked too deep. And now the gods were done watching.

"Rinni," he said calmly, without turning around. "Bring me the collars."

Rinni stumbled over, bare except for the veil still tied around her neck like a mockery of priesthood. Her skin was slick with sweat, her thighs glistening, her eyes manic with arousal.

"You wanna collar the angels?" she giggled, handing him a chain of glowing, rune-etched rings taken from the temple vault.

"No," Allen said, lifting one. "I want to claim them."

Another seraph landed.

This one was female-shaped. Golden armor, radiant breasts, sword as long as a building. She pointed it at Allen, voice ringing out across the ruin like thunder dipped in honey.

"Sinner. Defiler. You have one chance. Surrender and be erased."

Allen walked toward her slowly, the collar glowing in his hand.

"Come down here," he said, voice dripping with challenge, "and make me beg."

She did.

The seraph dropped from the sky with holy fire trailing her sword—and Allen dodged her blade, stepped inside her swing, grabbed her by the throat, and kissed her. Hard. Her body froze, shocked. That one moment of hesitation was all he needed.

He tore off her breastplate.

Her tits bounced free—perfect, golden, glowing with divine warmth. But beneath the glow, her nipples were already hard.

Allen shoved her to the ground, forced the collar around her neck, and activated the glyph.

It flared red.

She gasped.

And dropped her sword.

The moment it hit the floor, her expression changed. Her back arched. Her hands clawed at her own thighs, spreading them. Her wings flickered.

"What—what did you—"

Allen knelt between her legs. "Just rewrote your purpose."

He didn’t fuck her gently.

He ravaged her.

Her screams were still angelic, but cracked at the edges now. Moaning. Needy. Confused. She begged without knowing she was begging. Each thrust pushed her further from heaven, pulled her deeper into his rhythm. She came three times before he even slowed down, pussy clenching so hard the floor cracked beneath her.

The collar pulsed.

When Allen finally came inside her, her eyes rolled back. Her wings spasmed. And her halo exploded.

The sky cracked.

Time warped.

From the pit of the vault, the Mother laughed.

Allen stood tall, arms soaked, cock twitching, mouth grinning.

Ten more angels landed.

They surrounded him, weapons drawn, light flaring from their bodies like suns.

Allen cracked his neck.

"Good," he said, voice soaked in corruption. "I didn’t come this far to fuck one."

The beastkin behind him howled.

The temple began to rise—no, the ground did. The womb-vault was lifting, pushing the temple ruins up with it, turning the site into something new. A throne. A monument. A birthing place for a new order.

The sky blazed.

And Allen laughed.